Journey To A Different Past
by Championship Vinyl
Summary: I really love this one, and it's going to be longer than your arm. It is 100% Dimitri, various ages, before during & after the film. I see this as what really would have happened. Chapters may move. R&R, I'm begging you! UPDATED!
1. Every Time We Say Goodbye

.

**(My Disclaimer is on the former first chapter.) This chapter is really very sad. I just always sort of figured it would have happened, and I wasn't even going to include it, but I did. It is VERY brief, because I didn't want these two characters (which I do own) to have a lot of backstory. It's just an explanation why the ten-year-old in the prologue is working as a kitchen apprentice. Keep Kleenex handy, unless you're like me and they just make you sneeze with their cottony villainousness.**

.

.

It was a mild, dark day, typical for that spring of 1910. Rain poured in fat, ominous drops from the clouds above the town square. It was a crowded place; the kind of area in which you could easily lose someone if you weren't careful.

Or if you were.

The young woman's wavy, dark-blonde locks fluttered around her head in the breeze. She readjusted the quick-soaking hood that framed her face to better sheild her from the rain.

"Marina!" The dark-haired man loaded their one bag of luggage onto the back of the waiting cart. "There's no use blubbering over it now. We agreed on this. We can barely feed the two of us. Now come on and get on the wagon."

The woman was hesitant to follow her husband. He was right---she _knew_ he was right. But what she was about to do, she knew, was wrong. And she was scared. _God in Heaven, forgive me. Forgive us._

Sergei had already put the worst of the regret behind him. "Marina!"

She knelt down, oblivious to the wet cobblestones that pressed into the worn knees of her tattered linen dress. The ability to speak had left her. As she placed her hands on her son's shoulders, the tears in her eyes mingled with the rain, making it impossible to tell which one there was more of.

"Whatsa matter, Mama?" the small boy asked innocently.

Marina had no answer. For this, and for a lot of things. She pulled the boy closer and held her son for a long moment, as if they were the only two left on earth.

At last, she pulled back from him, and embedded the image of the small child in her mind. He was too thin, of course. They all were. At least this way, he would have a fighting chance.

"Mama needs to tell you something," she managed at last, "and you need to pay special attention, okay?" She kept a tight grip on the boy's shoulders, and looked straight into his eyes. "If you're ever in trouble, Dimitri, no matter what it is, don't you ever, _ever_ give up. Do you understand me?"

The boy was confused at the sudden gravity of the conversation. It was a bit much for a four-year-old. "Did _you_ ever give up, Mama?" he inquired.

That was too much for Marina. Breaking down into tears, she hugged her boy one more time, stood, and caught up to the cart just as it began to crawl from the city. She didn't look back.

There was a clap of rolling thunder from a cloud above, the ever-shifting crowds of townspeople filled in the cart's wake, and a young child stood alone in the center of it all. The dark, grey rain fell on.


	2. Starting Out

.

**Sorry this story's been on hiatus for a while. I've gotten an avalanche (or mini-avalanche at least) of new ideas for it lately, so you'll see more in the near future. This is during Dimitri's first week working at the palace at age nine, and the first time he lays eyes on Anastasia....I do refer briefly back to the first chapter, but just a mention of Marina, doesn't last long. Anyway, here you go.**

.

.

He was smart. He was capable. He was a hard worker and a fast learner.

So why was he in this kitchen? Because he was broke, that's why.

And because of _her_.

Fighting to push the blurred, blonde-framed face from his young head, Dimitri scrubbed at another pot and tried to think of something---_anything_---to amuse himself. _Anything_ to make the chore go by faster. He remembered hearing kids in a schoolyard once singing a chant they'd learned, and he decided to try his best to remember it. Yet somehow, the words ended up a little different.

_One, Two,_

_You weren't coming for me, were you?_

_Three, Four,_

_That's how old I was when you left._

_Five, Six,_

_Maybe you got sick..._

_Seven, eight,_

_I'm not eight anyomre._

_Nine, ten,_

_I'll be ten before you know it._

_One, two,_

_Why didn't you want me?_

Sighing, he forgot about the song. Silence was better than that. He _refused_...that.

At first he'd thought that a job in the palace would be the best thing in the whole world. But after a week on the job, he quickly realized he'd be seeing a lot more silver samovars than golden thrones. _Maybe I'll quit,_ he thought to himself. _There's got to be people out there who'd hire a nine-year-old. Shelters aren't _that_ bad_.

It was then that he heard laughing coming from the hall. Dropping the pot into the washbasin with a splash, Dimitri crept over to the door and poked his head out to take a look.

A beautiful young girl, barely older than six, was laughing from where she crouched behind a potted fern. It had to have been the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. Like home. Oh, how he wanted a home.

_That must be the Grand Duchess Anastasia_. He'd assumed he was out of her sight, but he was shocked to see her giggle and wave at him from behind a leaf. Dimitri froze. He didn't know whether to run back into the kitchen or walk out and take his punishment like a boy---er, man. But after a moment, it didn't appear that he would get in any trouble.

With another giggle, Anastasia held one finger up in front of her mouth and whispered, "Shhhhh." She pointed down the hall.

Sure enough, the second-youngest Grand Duchess came running, and with her cry of "Gotcha!", both of them squealed and tore off in the other direction. Anastasia turned back for the breifest second, though, and gave him a little wave.

When they were gone, Dimitri got back to work. His mother's image was gone from his head, though, replaced instead with a new one; with fiery red hair and kind blue eyes. _Maybe I'll stay on after all_, he decided. _This could be more fun than I thought._

_._

_._

**You know how much I love feedback! X)**

_._


	3. Days Like These

.

**(My Disclaimer is on the former first chapter.) I had great fun writing this one. It's not long, and, again, I take the liberty of assuming they were friends as kids (See "Trusting You"). The dialogue will make you laugh, definitely. Also, part of this is the flashback in "Trusting You" Chapter 6, which I actually wrote BEFORE this, so it was fun to give the scene a backstory. I really love how my stories are beginning to tie in to one another. Read on!**

.

.

He met her at a quarter to three, as they'd agreed, at the base of the tallest old tree in Tsarskoe Selo, as they'd agreed. Completely spontaneously, she carried with her a sandwich to share, and she handed it to him now as she stepped up the trunk of the oak.

"Careful. If anyone sees us, they'll tell Papa." Anastasia shook her red curls out across her back and reached for another branch.

"Don't worry," Dimitri called from below her. "No one will see us. I've been climbing trees since I was five."

The two of them reached the top branch, overlooking all of Tsarskoe Selo, and sat down. Anastasia widened her youthful cerulean eyes. "Really?" Clearly, she was impressed with his five years' worth of experience, in the way only a child could truly be. "Did you ever fall?"

"Nope," Dimitri bragged, puffing up to his full height of four and three-quarter feet. "I never get hurt." He reached into the folded square of cloth and pulled out the sandwich, handing the first half to Anastasia. "Here."

"Thanks. I took it from the leftovers from lunch today, so it's two different halves. There wasn't a whole one left." She peered over his shoulder. "What'd you get?"

"Ham."

"Beef. Trade you?"

"Yeah."

Below them, a flurry of flustered female voices began arguing with each other. Anastasia looked down. "Oh! Shhhh," she laughed, "it's Tatiana and Olga."

Dimitri took a bite of his sandwich and settled in for the show.

"I can't believe you read my diary!" Tatiana was saying. "Why would you do that?"

"You tell me," Olga countered. "I never read your diary!"

"Then why wasn't it where I left it? We share a room!"

Quietly, so as not to be heard, Anastasia giggled. She leaned closer, indicating she had something to confess.

Dimitri leaned in too. "What'd you do now?" He was trying not to laugh himself. Instead of washing dishes, he was getting dinner and a show.

Anastasia looked proud of herself. "I hid Tatiana's diary," she admitted. "After I read it. She likes the blonde guard, by the way."

The young duchess finally lost control, and went into a silent fit of hysterical laughter. Dimitri laughed too, genuinely impressed by his feisty friend, and they finally erupted at full volume once the warring sisters headed back inside.


	4. There's A Scoundrel In St Petersburg

**.**

**Disclaimer: Blah blah, don't own any Anastasia characters, blah blah blah get on with it. (Do own Mrs. Proletsky.) (Dimitri's 12 here.)**

.

.

The dust and bustle of the morning filled the streets, spread to the alleys, and raised to choke the sky with its clouds of fog and commotion. Horses clomped down roads, shop owners peddled their wares from shoddy stands of crates and cinder blocks, and carts rattled through the square, jostling the occasional piece of produce to the ground.

Understandably, no one could complain in these circumstances if, say, a hand reached out from the dust and confiscated a cart-abandoned apple, kind of like it did just now.

At least, that was what Vlad had taught him.

Dimitri gave the fruit a quick polish with his sleeve and disappeared into the crowd. _Breakfast_, he thought to himself.

Just as he was about to take a bite, a raspy voice stopped him just short of the glossy red surface.

"Hey! You there! Boy!" The mustachioed peseant in the front seat of the apple cart jumped from his rickety perch and pointed an accusatory finger at Dimitri.

Dimitri recalled what he'd been taught all his life to do in these kinds of situations, and in that second thinking became doing. He turned and ran.

Pushing through the masses of townsfolk as fast as his feet would take him, he slid like water past carts, over fences and through alleys. He finally slowed when the shouting stopped and he was sure he'd outrun the jilted proprietor.

Of course, as luck would have it, he'd come to a halt in an all-too-familiar doorway. Mrs. Proletsky stood around the side of the small house, stooped over a wicker basket of laundry. She looked up from out of her headscarf when she noticed Dimitri's approach, and a knowing smile softened her time-hardened face.

"You can't stay out of trouble for _one minute_, can you, Dimitri?"

He mustered up a quick fake laugh for bravado's sake. "Trouble? Who's in trouble?"

No sooner had the words left him than he felt a rough hand clamp down on his wrist. He squirmed to flee, but his captor held fast.

"I'm in trouble."

"Who do you think you are, boy, to steal from _my_ cart?" the vendor demanded, his head eclipsing the sun from Dimitri's point of view.

"_Finally_---_there_ you are!" Both the vendor and Dimitri turned to see who had joined in the conversation, though Dimitri already knew the voice. "I have been _scouring_ the town for you, my boy---you can be sure there'll be a...a conversation when we get home."

Vlad turned his admonishing gaze on Dimitri into an apologetic one on the vendor. He was a welcome sight, and Dimitri played along with every word.

"Comerade, I am _very_ sorry---please forgive whatever infraction my son here has put upon you. You see, he is only twelve, after all, and on top of that, is a bit...." Here Vlad indicated the proper sign language for '_crazy_'. "I assure you he meant no harm."

The vendor considered a moment, then, with a sneer, dropped Dimitri's arm. "Keep your urchin paws off my business, _boy_," he growled as he stomped out of the alley.

Rubbing the color back into his wrist, he shouted, "It's _Dimitri!_" at the retreating vendor's back.

Vlad picked him up from the ground. "Were you _trying_ to cause a scene? I told you to _find breakfast_, not _get arrested_."

"Come on, I had it under control. And the apple wasn't even on the cart," Dimitri argued.

"You and I have a very different opinion of _control_, my boy. Now say goodbye to the lady."

Dimitri rolled his eyes. "Goodbye, Mrs. Proletsky."

Vlad popped him one on the back of the head.

"Ow! _Madame Comerade_ Proletsky."

The old woman nodded, and Dimitri fell in step behind Vlad.


	5. You've Got A Friend In Me

.

.

"Next!"

The line shuffled forward as yet another unfortunate was admitted to the shelter for the night. Space was limited, and with each person who vanished over the threshold, the crowd grew more and more anxious.

"Next!"

About midway down the line, Vlad was among the hopefuls waiting for a place to sleep. At his side stood a young girl---or at least, what _looked_ like a young girl.

"Why do _I_ have to be the girl?" Dimitri hissed from under a false cascade of curls and the hood of a worn cloak.

"We've been through this. It's 'women and children first'---we're more likely to be admitted if one of us is both."

"Great---so why don't _you_ be the 'woman' and _I'll_ be the 'child?'"

"_One_ of us has to do the talking. And I couldn't find a cloak that fit," Vlad admitted sheepishly. "Quiet now; we're next."

"Next!"

Vlad put on a showmanly smile.

"Name?" barked the comendant.

"Vladimir. And this is my niece, Di-"

Dimitri kicked him in the shin.

"-aphne. Daphne."

The soldier raised an eyebrow.

"She's American."

"Fine. Ages?" The comendant looked weary.

Here Vlad saw no need to lie, and Dimitri prayed it wouldn't ruin the act.

"Thirty-five and twelve," Vlad answered, looking ready to stride through the door.

"I'll allow the child," the comendant pronounced, "but you, comerade, are neither youth nor elderly, and are plenty capable of fending for yourself. Next!"

Dimitri looked at Vlad. He was obviously surprised, and a look of disappointment crossed his face. He pushed Dimitri toward the door anyway.

"What? _Vlad_..."

"I'll be okay, Dimitri."

"You'll freeze! I'm not going in there without you."

"Yes, you are."

"Young lady!" The officer turned to face them for the briefest second. "Dawdle much longer and I assure you, your place inside won't last."

"Go on." Vlad gave him one last nudge toward the threshold. "I'll be here to meet you in the morning." At that, Dimitri was swept into the building by the crowd, and the heavy doors were bolted shut behind them.

The shelter, one large room, was crowded by hundreds of disposessed Soviet casualties like himself; some in an even worse state of living. Babies cried, children his age and younger chased each other in zigzgas through the room, elderly folks recited prayer or poetry. There was a certain sadness in this for Dimitri, in the very fact that these people lived this way from day, to day, to day.

What a contrast, he thought. A picture played across his mind for that second---only that one, briefest, silent second. A vision of a family, of a glittering party, of security; of diamonds and gold and a thousand luxuries that had been snuffed like the flame of an errant candle. It was a world that he'd only glimpsed; one that he'd only begun to get a hold of before it had slipped through his fingers as quickly as water through a stream.

To think, in this room, that such a world had ever existed.

Dimitri walked along the rows of white, even cots until he came to an unoccupied one, where he immediately deposited his shoddy disguise. No sooner had he done that than a blonde boy about his age, face streaked with dirt, ran up to him with a badly stitched leather ball.

"Hey there! I'm Colin," the boy said with a smile. "D'ya wanna play with us?"

Dimitri looked at him. "No," he said. "Thanks. I'm just gonna go to sleep."

Hours passed, and Dimitri, tired as he was, could only stare at the ceiling. The others in the shelter had dozed off some time ago, as the noise had dropped off, piece by piece by piece. Yet there he lay.

All Dimitri could think about was Vlad, huddled under a newspaper somewhere. He suddenly began to get the idea that this depressing communal shelter was the _last_ place he wanted to be.

Dimitri sat up and threw off the cheap, paper-thin white blanket. He really hated being a good kid. It didn't usually pay off.

Sneaking over to the frost-spread window, he lifted first one latch, then the other, and ducked quietly through the frame, slipping into the cold, star-adorned night.

Of course, being spontaneous, being _twelve_, he didn't think to grab the stupid cloak before he left.

He started up the street, shivering already and scanning the alleys and doorways in search of Vlad. The air was still, and the town was as silent as a mime, telling its story without saying a word.

Finally, in the back corner of the last alley he came to, he spotted the familiar shape of his friend under a pile of Sunday's _St. Petersburg Times_.

Vlad was still awake, and looked surprised to see Dimitri standing there. Surprised, and yet somehow not surprised at all.

He could have told him to go back, or he could have scolded him for leaving the shelter. He could have, but he saw what good it would do. And he didn't.

"_Daphne?_" Dimitri shook his head.

Vlad sighed. "Cover yourself up. I don't want an icicle to deal with in the morning."

Dimitri took up a space by the wall, and Vlad passed him the economics section.

As the two of them sat there, trying to lay claim to whatever sleep they could, they heard a noise, footsteps, crunching toward them through the silence. The noise eventually gave way to a shadow, and the shadow in turn gave way to Mrs. Proletsky, basket in hand, on her way home from a neighbor's. Delivering soup again, no doubt.

She laid her eyes on the two pathetic forms taking up company with the trash cans. "You are a stubborn boy," she directed at Dimitri, "and you, too," she added, nodding at Vlad.

Mrs. Proletsky sighed, and her breath formed a cloud of its own against the darkness. "Come on," she relented. "You ragamuffins aren't about to kill yourelves yet. I won't hear of it."

Dimitri looked at Vlad. Vlad looked at Dimitri. They both abandoned their newsprint cocoons and trailed behind Mrs. Proletsky through the square, three silhouettes in the night.


	6. Here's Looking At You, Kid

.

**I own L. Seydinov, Gregorio, and Paulie. This chapter is a transition chapter where Dimitri goes from being 12 to being 17 halfway through. I wanted to show the funny, rambunctious little-kid side of him, hinting toward hijinks that just leave you wondering what they were. But I was also ready to age him a bit, and put him in with his friends, gambling illegally, of course. This is a really fun chapter, but at the very end it hints toward his tendency to think he doesn't deserve things. I thought the transition was creative. Also, Sophie is mentioned, but never seen: I just wanted the "getting ready" part in there as a lead-in. **

.

.

"Ow! There's a neck under there you know."

Vlad kept tugging on the borrowed bow tie on Dimitri's borrowed suit, and the boy's patience was starting to live on borrowed time.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Vlad said, "but everything has to be _perfect!_"

He didn't _look_ sorry.

"Lemme go; I'll do it." Dimitri swatted his hand away. "Why do _I_ have to go?"

"Because I'm not leaving you alone in the square all weekend."

Dimitri gave him a bitter look.

"Again."

"_Vlad_," he grumbled. "It was _one time!_"

"It doesn't matter. There's nothing to worry about---you're going to _love_ her. She is...she is simply indescribable!"

Dimitri didn't bother trying not to laugh. "Vlad and somebody sitting in a tree....Hey, what's her name again?"

"Sophie." Vlad began twirling around the room, and Dimitri had to choke back the urge to have an hysterical episode. "She is a glittering jewel, a chocolate-covered ice cream cone on a hot day!"

"Are you gonna _date _her or _eat_ her?"

Vlad stopped dancing, but the goofy smile still controlled his face. "Just you wait, Dimitri my boy, just you wait!"

.

.

.

"Wait for it Dimitri, wait for it..."

"Vlad, you dog!" laughed Gregorio. "No backseat playing!"

"He's right, Vlad." Leonitka stubbed out his cigar on the table. "Coach him and he'll lose for sure---isn't that right, Dimitri?"

Dimitri sat at the far end of the poker table, bent over a fan of cards in absolute concentration. He didn't answer the others, nor did he look up. Vlad stood at the back of the room, along with Paulie's dad, Gregorio's uncle, and old man Seydinov.

"You with us, Dimitri?" Paulie checked.

Dimitri looked up. A sly grin crossed his face. "I'm with ya, I'm with ya," he confirmed.

Vlad held his breath. Dimitri always worked the game like this right before he....But was he bluffing? It was all in the tactic.

Gregorio laid down his hand of cards. "Out," he stated, shaking his head.

Leo turned to his right. "Paulie?"

"Jack," he said, and he too laid down his cards.

"Straight king, boys," Leo declared, releasing a row of practically unbeatable cards onto the table.

All three heads snapped toward Dimitri. The grown men at the back all but shut their eyes.

"Well then," Leo prodded. "Got a losing hand, Dimitri?"

Dimitri took his sweet time responding. "I don't know," he said, snapping his cards down onto the table. "But _you_ do."

"_Ohhhh_," all three shouted, throwing their chairs back from the scene of the slaughter.

A fan of straight aces lay in front of him.

"Ah ha HAAA!" Vlad barrelled to the center of the room and clobbered Dimitri into a bear hug that lifted him clear off the ground. "You did it!"

"Bloody unbelievable!" Gregorio muttered.

Paulie leaned back in his chair and initiated the old chant yet again. "Veni Vedi Vici---"

"---Never beat Dimitri," the others finished.

"Pay up, fellas!" Dimitri bellowed. "You owe me."

"Yeah, you owe _us_ a decent _burial_," Paulie joked, rifling through his wallet.

One by one, his opponents deposited their promised wagers in a pile at Dimitri's end of the worn-in table.

Leo stood up and lobbed his jacket over his shoulder. "Come on, men; let's cut outta here before we get busted by some Red."

Everyone filed out through the back entrance until the room was once again deserted, and went their seperate ways down the street. On the walk through town, Vlad just couldn't seem to keep his excitement contained.

"I can't believe it!" he sputtered. "You're seventeen---_seventeen_---and you've already won more matches than I have in a lifetime!"

Dimitri only shrugged, his fixed stare on the ground obscuring the humble grin on his face.

Vlad kept going. "Two thousand rubles! I can hardly believe it. _Two thousand rubles_, my boy! You, are, brilliant! A genius!"

"Vlad."

"We can afford to pay rent on an apartment!"

"Vlad."

"I wonder if we should hide it."

"Vlad!"

Vlad turned to him, wide-eyed. "What?"

"It was just a game." Dimitri kept his eyes down and walked a little faster.

Vlad adopted Dimitri's somber tone, but his mind was still on the money. "Oh, you're right, you're right, of course---we should save as much of it as we can, naturally."

Dimitri rolled his eyes. Sure. _That's_ what he'd meant.

"Amazing," Vlad breathed as they disappeared around the corner. "Simply amazing."


	7. The Number One Rule About Fight Club

.

**I enjoyed this---it goes into a few different things, including his popularity with the girls, the fact that he doesn't care, and just one instance out of many in which he learned to fight. If I wrote it anything like what I've got in my head, there's a spot where you'll be laughing "Don't do it, Dimitri, don't say it" at your computer. You'll see. **

.

.

"Hey, Dimitri."

A group of fur-coated girls stood against the wall of the old Medvedev building. One of them, the blonde with the blunt bangs and pale complexion, stepped forward as he walked past.

Dimitri halted for a moment. He guessed they were part of Gregorio's constant entourage, who was always trying to see that he "got around". Well, maybe he didn't _want_ to "get around." He concluded Gregorio had clued them in to his winning streak.

"Hey," he replied, as if he didn't really care either way.

The girl batted her pale eyes. "I'm Elena." She gestured to the two behind her. "That's Elishka, and that's Tanya."

The two girls giggled, and Dimitri fought the urge to roll his eyes. He knew the names wouldn't stick past the half hour. Never did.

Out of all the things he could have said, he made "Nice to meet you" the one that came out.

"So..." Sensing his disinterest, the girl looked ready to move on. "We'll see you around?" she asked hopefully.

_Unlikely_. "Yeah, definitely." He turned to bolt.

"_Hey!_"

Dimitri turned his gaze toward the street corner, where a tall, broad-shouldered guy of about 19---or 30, for all _he_ knew---was lumbering in his direction.

_Oh, great_.

"You talkin' to my girl?" the creature bellowed, towering over Dimitri.

"Boris, don't," begged the blonde.

"It's fine. I do this all the time." Dimitri stared up at the guy, refusing to cower. "Nope," he answered, "just walking by."

"I don't want to see you 'round here talkin' to my _girl_."

The little voice was telling Dimitri to quit while he was ahead. It told him, but he rarely listened.

"Funny. I didn't see your name on her. I'm so forgetful---what was it, anyway? Caveman?"

"_That's_ it!" Dimitri looked down just in time to see the ground pull away from him and spin in a circle or two. After that it got very close very fast. And hard.

He picked himself up from the dirt and jumped at the guy swinging, taking as many hits as he gave. The brute was twice Dimitri's size but only half as fast, and had two black eyes within the minute.

Two new voices made themselves heard over the ruckus after a moment. Dimitri was still swinging when his arms were pulled behind him by some force that was prying him backward from the scene.

"Are you listening? Dimitri! Enough! That is _enough_!" Vlad was shouting. Similarly, the cretin was being reprimanded also, a few feet away, by a giant brute Dimitri could only assume was its father.

"Are you out of your _mind?_" Vlad had him pinned by the shoulders, his feet were back on the ground, and even _then_ he wasn't paying attention. "Dimitri!"

"I had him beat," he grumbled, wiping the dirt from his face onto his sleeve.

"That isn't the point! Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

"Don't give me that, Vlad. I _had_ it under control. I'm an adult."

"You're _seventeen_, Dimitri." Vlad let go of him. "You aren't finished yet." He looked tired, like all he really wanted was a cup of the coffee he couldn't afford. "Get your coat."

Dimitri hadn't even noticed he'd lost it. He picked up the ragged scrap of cloth from the ground and slung it over his shoulder, following Vlad silently out of the alley.

After a long, long, wordless moment, Dimitri spoke. "I had him beat," he repeated quietly.

Vlad chuckled wearily. "I know," he conceded. "I know."


	8. Like A Memory From A Dream

.

**Now comes the explanation of why he and Vlad were in the palace, and it lets him revisit the past a bit, whether he wants to or not. (He's still 17 here.) You'll be seeing a certain wall.... Keep reading!**

.

.

There was something about St. Petersburg in winter. Most cities looked sad in winter, like sort of a hibernating creature, all but dying so as to avoid the cold. St. Petersburg, on the other hand, was _already_ sad throughout the year. Winter seemed to rejeuvenate it in a way; to bring it to its full, if modest, potential.

Dimitri pulled his overcoat tighter around him and bent against the wind as he strode up the street toward the old palace. An inch or so of grey snow crunched under his feet with every step, and he greeted a few townsfolk he recognized along the way.

"Staying out of trouble, Dimitri?"

"Doin' what I can, Comerade Pavel."

"Good morning, Dimitri."

"Madame Comerade Lebanov, how are you."

As he approached the decrepit building's gate, he couldn't help but wonder for the thousandth time just why Vlad had insisted on meeting _here_. And at eleven in the morning, no less.

Vlad had said he'd found a place for them to stay at night---a place with no rent, no fees and no worries. It sounded promising enough---ever since old Marta Proletsky had followed her husband Ivan to the hereafter, there had been no guarantee of shelter in the cold months. Still, revelations like this were often too good to be true.

Dimitri stepped into the cavernous ballroom and looked around at the monument, seven years abandoned. Dust particles floated on boxy rays of light that streamed in through the windows, casting stripes of illumination over tables still set with cobweb-strewn china. The walls, carved and adorned with painting after painting, gave way on either side to two grand staircases that curled from the floor above.

His mind flashed to the last time he'd seen this room, aglow and packed with the priveleged in their finery. He'd seen it from an entirely different door then.

Dimitri actually had to shake his head to get the vision to go away. He made a point never to think of that, of then.

"Vlad," he called, and the echo bounced back at him from the ceiling. "Vlad!"

"Dimitri!" boomed a voice to his right. "Good, good!" Vlad descended the enormous staircase and steered Dimitri toward the opposite one.

"Why _this_ place?"

"In time, in time," Vlad hushed. "I have a proposition for you." He seemed eager, like a child with a secret and a big mouth. "I have found us a place to stay."

"Yeah? And where is _that_?"

Vlad spread his arms wide, indicating the vast expanse of fallen luxury that surrounded them. A devious, clever grin enveloped his face.

Dimitri was in disbelief. "_Here?_"

Vlad nodded. "Here."

"You're suggesting that we..._live_. In the old _palace_."

"Mm-hmm." If Vlad was mysterious before, he was a salesman now. "Think about it, Dimitri! Private rooms, _real_ beds, working fireplaces, no cost whatsoever....And no one has come here in ages. Government or otherwise."

Dimitri thought about it. It did make sense--a logical living arrangement if ever there was one---but he heard himself say, as if from several feet off, "It should be left the way it is."

"We'd only need one room," Vlad persisted, dangling the bait.

One room. The proposition hung there in midair. One room. It would be unnoticed; it would be insignificant to the leviathan that was the palace. A substitute for a home.

"All right," Dimitri relented.

"Yes?"

"Fine."

"_Yyyyyeaahooooo!_" Vlad threw on his coat and backpedaled toward the doors. "I'm going to the market. There'll be good food tonight, my boy!" he hollered, gleefully re-entering the cold. "Put the fire out if you leave."

Sure, what was he going to do, burn it down? Vlad's shadow seeped away from the doorframe, and Dimitri was alone with the Winter Palace once again. "Just when it can't get any odder," he muttered, and wandered toward the residential wing.

He walked down the hallway, carefully for some reason, and opened the first door at random with a creak. His breath caught in his throat, and he instantly regretted the impulsive decision.

So much for forgetting the past.

Dimitri put one foot after another through the untouched room, across the marble floor, past the dollhouse, until he stood in front of the framed photograph of the _Standart_. Bending down, he put a hand against the dusty wooden wainscotting and gave it the slightest push.

The obscured hinges squeaked their complaint, and it swung inward. The small, black corridor didn't seem to want to receive any of the windowlight. Somehow Dimitri didn't blame it.

A puff of grey-brown dust rose as the panel met the wall, and Dimitri walked from the room, shutting the door behind him.


	9. Mingling With The Commonners

.

**Dimitri's around 18 in this one. It's a three-part chapter and it does NOT all take place during the same day. Behold, the spectacularness. ;D Do enjoy.**

.

.

"Good morning, Dimitri."

"Mrs. Johanson, how's life?"

"Oh, you know, some good days, some bad days. It's good to see you!"

"Same here."

He hadn't stopped walking during the whole conversation, brief though it was. If he knew one of St. Petersburg's upbeat, downtrodden citizens, he knew them all.

Rounding the corner, Dimitri went over the plan in his head one final time. Not that it was neccesary. He knew it like he knew his own name.

He stepped off the curb and into the street, completely ignoring the ancient old car rambling toward him, chugging black smoke in its wake.

He didn't hear the horn, either. There was a screech of brakes, and Dimitri slammed into the hood, falling to the pavement like a rag doll.

A crowd of passers-by began to gather and stare, including Vlad, who had been browsing the market on the other side of the street. The driver got out to survey the damage, and Vlad was on him in seconds flat. "What have you done?"

"Well I...I..."

"That's my son! What do you think you were _doing_, driving like that?"

"I...I was barely even _moving_; he came out of nowhere! Walked right in front of me!"

With a groan just loud enough to draw the audience's attention back to the victim, Dimitri sat up and rubbed his head. Vlad was on hand immediately. "Are you all right?"

"I can't tell..._ow_..."

"_You idiot_!" Vlad aimed a blaming finger at the driver. "He may never walk again! He may not remember his own name! Do you, Dimitri?"

He blinked, as if light itself was painful. "Who?"

"You _see?_ Why, why...you're lucky I don't call the authorities on you right this very instant! I should sue you for every no-good penny you're worth, comerade."

"No no no! I mean, uh..." The driver's hand almost automatically went for his jacket pocket. "Surely I can fix this? It was a complete accident, I swear. Here." He dumped a handful of coins in Dimitri's hat that now lay on the cobblestones. "I'm sorry, really I am."

"You should be. Now go on! Go!"

That was the end of the conversation. Vlad assisted Dimitri in getting to his feet and making it to the sidewalk, and the driver couldn't have driven away faster if he'd had propellers on his vehicle. The crowd of observers trickled off.

Dimitri limped until they were out of sight. "I think I actually hit my head that time," he muttered, returning to his normal stride. "Great job on the speech, by the way. _I_ almost felt sorry for you."

Vlad chuckled, and returned the praise. "Brilliant, as always. But honestly, Dimitri, don't throw yourself so hard next time."

He tugged his hat back onto his head "What am I supposed to do, let it actually _hit_ me?"

"Of course not. You could at least be less apparent about it. It must be _convincing_, and you nearly jumped through the front window."

"Okay, I'll tell you what. _I'll_ throw the fit, and next time y_ou_ can get hit by a car."

"Fine, fine, point taken." They stopped and sat down on the front steps of an abandoned building.

"How much did we get?"

Vlad took the profits from his coat and counted them over. "Enough for a hot dinner tonight and to get us through the week."

"Great!" Dimitri stood up, tired and ready to sneak back into the old palace. Bashing into vehicles will do that to you. "I was thinking you shouldn't use my real name the next time, though."

"Oh," Vlad considered, "good point."

"I mean, somebody who stops has to have seen it before. It's better if they don't recognize me. It's a very precise game we play, you know."

"_Game_?" Vlad stopped walking. He felt a life lesson coming on. "Dimitri, this is not a game. This is how we make our _living_. It's not honest, and it's not honorable, but it's a living nonetheless."

"Oh, so I can't enjoy it a little?" Kicking up a storm of dead leaves from the gutter, he hopped up onto the curb, balancing one foot over the other for the next block. Working his craft was really the only time he had fun, anymore. He was good at what he did, almost proud of it.

_Almost._

"I'm only saying...."

"Yeah? What?"

Vlad let out a sigh. "I'm saying...what do you want to eat?"

.

.

.

It wasn't so hard. He'd calculated it well. Just duck through the crowd, past the market, 'round the corner, and he'd be in the clear. They'd never---

"Where are you off to, Dimitri?"

---see him.

_Okay, Plan B_. Caught red handed---at least thankfully not by a cop---Dimitri played it cool and sauntered over to the group of middle-aged, cloak-wrapped women standing by the produce cart.

"Morning, ladies---and may I say you are looking _lovely_ today."

"Yes, yes, cut the flattery, junior." The one in the middle, an old friend of Mrs. Proletsky's, put her mouth where her distrust was. "Don't you still owe my Peter a good thirty rubles?"

Ah, that didn't take long to come up. Time to avert confrontation. "See, the thing is, I don't exactly _have_ the money just yet." She was giving him that little eyebrow-raised grin that said _I told you so_, so he went on. "I'm actually working on a big investment right now that'll have all your money back where it belongs in no time."

"Oh really?" the other two siad, trading looks of interest. But the middle one still wasn't buying it.

"Your _life_ is lying, Dimitri," she skeptically pointed out.

"Oh, no, not this time. But there's a slight problem." He leaned in and lowered his voice as if sharing some dark and precious family secret. "We don't quite have enough yet to get the project _started_. Once we get the investment up and running, of course, the problem solves itself, but as it _is_...." He let the sentence trail off, leaving the women to infer for themselves the financial horrors of bankruptcy.

Instantly the pushover on the left opened her purse. "How much do you need?"

"Not so fast." Again the middle one had her misgivings, and she snapped her comerade's purse shut again. Her eyes narrowed on Dimitri with curiosity. "What exactly _is_ this investment?"

"You know, I'm not really at liberty to _say_ that just yet---at least not until the firm goes public."

"Ah. And who are your partners in this?"

"Well, I can't give names, but I _can_ tell you that there's at least one..." His eyes darted around a moment, and he lowered his voice again. "At least one member of the former Imperial Court."

That sealed it. Years of practice told him that it was in the bag at this moment.

Letting out a resigned sigh, the woman in the middle dropped her hand from her friend's purse and walked away, shaking her head. The other two immediately rifled through their money.

"_Thank_ you, ladies, I appreciate this, I really do," he assured, as enough rubles for a fortnight dropped into his palm. "I'll get you your cut of the profits as soon as I can, I swear---by the way, is that a new shawl? You're a vision. And you---you've been getting more sun, haven't you? It's working wonders for you, it is."

"Oh, stop."

"You're too much!"

"You're probably right." Pocketing the money and tipping his cap, Dimitri backed away. "I'm sure two _generous_ ladies like yourselves have a busy day ahead, so I'll be on my way."

Leaving the two easily-flattered saps behind, Dimitri turned and continued up the street. As luck would have it, though---or _his_ luck, anyway---he practically slammed into the first woman's son on the curb, who was going the opposite way.

Before he could open his mouth to speak, Dimitri gave him a pat on the shoulder, and kept on walking.

"Peter! Good seeing you. I just gave your mother that thirty rubles. She went that way."

Looking confused, Peter headed in the direction he'd pointed. Dimitri, on the other hand, smiled to himself.

_Piece of cake._

.

.

.

It wasn't often that he went through the _front_ door of a shop. He was pretty familiar with back steps and side entrances, just not with having _money_.

With every step, Dimitri flicked one of the coins high into the air and caught it again. Each time he got ahold of a little spending money, it was all the same, but never familiar.

As he wandered through town, browsing past windows as a customer and not a beggar, his eyes fell on an unsettling scene across the square. Some stocky brute of a shopowner was standing above a cowering little brother and sister, shouting to high heaven, demanding one of two things: repayment or consequences.

He knew what this was about. He'd been in that position too many times. Forgetting his chore, Dimitri quickened his pace and changed his course, coming to a halt next to the bedraggled-looking kids.

"Leave them alone!"

That got their attention. All three involved turned to him in almost slow-motion.

"These _brats_ stole from my store," the shopowner growled.

"That doesn't give you the right to treat _kids_ like this," Dimitri argued.

"Oh yeah? What's it to _you_, anyway?"

"I...." Dimitri looked at the kids, hoping for a clue, but they had even more 'nothing' than _he_ did. "I'm their brother," he finally decided. Then he decided to make it interesting. "And you _don't_ want me to tell father about this."

It had been a risk---a _gigantic_ risk---but it worked. All at once the shopkeeper's face lost its color. He gulped. "You don't mean...."

Not having the first clue who the guy was suggesting, assuming it was some officer, Dimitri nodded solemnly. "And I will. Now. Are they in any trouble?"

Practically trembling, the owner shook his head. "Why, no, no, of course not." And with zero hesitation, he scurried back inside.

"There." Kneeling down to eye-level, Dimitri addressed the brother and sister. "You guys okay?"

The little boy, who looked to be the elder by about a year or so, nodded. "Thanks a lot for helpin' us. That was real nice of you."

"It's no big deal." He stood up again. "So how did you two get mixed up with old Vakov anyway? You have to be careful with people like him."

"Well," the boy replied, "we kinda _did_ steal from his store, but we hafta. We don't got a nice home or nothin'. I can't walk real well, and my sister here can't talk, so mama and papa says we gotta get more money."

Dimitri was hit with a pang of empathy despite himself. Here were these two little streetrats who were in an even worse situation than _he_ was, and who probably deseved better. For a second, just a second, his mind flashed back to his shopping trip, to the idea of maybe some cheap clothing or extra food, but he waved it away, and reached into his pocket, taking out what coins he had left. "Here. Take this." Vlad would understand. Maybe he'd even be proud.

"Wow, _thanks_, mister!" A huge, cheesy smile spread over the kid's face, and he and his silent sister hobbled away in excitement.

Dimitri turned to go---though _where_, he had no idea. Back home, most likely. He felt honest, for once, like he'd done something right. He wished he'd get that feeling more often, though it usually left him broke.

But when he spun back around to offer the kids one more bit of advice---something about not being able to trust people---he was shocked by what he saw. The two little runts were speeding down the street as fast as their perfectly fine legs would take them, laughing all the way.

"_Hey!_"

The kids stopped dead in their tracks, and looked slowly over their shoulders, then at each other.

And then they ran.

_Forget honesty_. Realizing he'd been conned---how ironic---Dimitri took off in pursuit and chased after the two of them as fast as he could go. Thankfully he was a good runner; he'd been on the other end of this too many times to count.

"Hurry!" the sister shouted.

_She can talk?! Great---he can walk, she can talk; what else were they lying about, do they have a house? A car? Stables?_ "Stop!"

They were quick, but he was quicker, and they tired easily. He was gaining on them. Pulling a trick from the book he'd written, they made a sharp, sudden swerve into an alley. Dimitri followed them, all the way down and out the other side. "Hey! You! Stop!"

But they weren't stopping. As it turned out, neither was the baker, taking his trash out, straight across Dimitri's path. It was too late to get out of the way. The metal can flew four feet in the air, and the baker and Dimitri collided and flattened onto the ground.

It just so happened, of course, that Vlad had witnessed the wipeout, having been at the bakery himself. He came over and helped Dimitri up, holding back a laugh. "Problem, my boy?"

Still trying to catch his breath, he sputtered, "Kids...he can walk...she can read..."

That laugh wasn't so well-contained anymore. "Sure, sure, of course. That makes complete sense."

"I'm serious, Vlad! These two kids...they conned me out of that money!"

"I'm sure they did," Vlad laughed. Noticing Dimitri's sour expression toward him as he brushed debris from his sleeve, he reasoned, "I'm sorry, but you should have seen that dive! I never have a camera at the right moments."

Dimitri ignored the pain from the fall and the sting of knowing he'd stupidly just paid for two brats' snack break. "Well, I've got good news, at least."

"What's that?"

"We won't have any trouble at Vakov's for a while."

.

.

**I so loved this chapter!!! Consider this the "conning" chapter, if you will. I wanted to show him "at work," you know.... Everyone's saying he's a con artist extrordinaire, but _really_, have we ever seen him do anything but scam the Dowager? We have _now_... :D :D :D It's great to finally put a long chapter into this story; most don't breach 600 words. My intent here was to come up with some of the awesomest scams for Dodger here to pull, and I love the result. Betcha freaked out when I hit him with a car, didn't ya? _He_ hit the _car_. XD (You know me: I would never hit Dimitri with a moving vehicle unless there was a significant reason, i.e. plot twist coming.) XD I'll never know what ya thought unless you tell me, though.... Long chapter = super-happy-detailed reviews, right people?? =O Plleeaase.... Thank you....**

.


	10. By George, I Think We've Got It

.

**This chapter sets up for the plot of the events in the film, and takes place when he's 18-19, somewhere in there. It's not long. It starts off in the middle of yet another "where is the money coming from" conversation, and it touches on a very important posession....**

.

.

"Look," Dimitri sighed, getting tired of the discussion fast. "All I know is we can't keep relying on the short game."

"Exactly," Vlad huffed. "At least we're on the same page here. We've got to stop living on the odd ten or twenty rubles a month."

"We need a plan."

"I agree."

"Something with a big payoff."

"Agreed."

Dimitri stopped pacing as he took the law into consideration. "Above board?"

Vlad shook his head. "Ideally, but not neccesary. Desperate times call for desperate measures."

"Right." He sat down across from Vlad and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Any ideas?"

"Not so much as a hint."

The two of them sat there in the silence of the drawing room, waiting for that great epiphany to strike at any second. In the meantime, Vlad noticed from the corner of his eye that the fireplace was dying out. "The fire's fading," he said.

"Hand me that paper from yesterday." Vlad passed it to Dimitri, and he began leafing through the pages, throwing the useless ones into the flames.

Then, like a bucket of ice water, a headline hit him with full force.

_DOWAGER EMPRESS' REWARD STILL UNCLAIMED_.

"Vlad!" He thrust the page at his friend and pointed out the headline, watching as Vlad scanned the article for details.

"'Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna Romanov of the former House of Romanov is still on the search for her missing granddaughter, Anastasia Nicholaievna,'" he read aloud, becoming more excited with every word. "'The Dowager is currently living in Paris, and is offering a reward of _ten million rubles_ to any who ensure her granddaughter's safe return.' Ten million rubles! This is _perfect_! But---how will we...."

He trailed off, and Dimitri simply let that confident grin work its way once again over his face.

"You still got that music box?"


	11. Lesson Learned

.

**He's 18-19 here, closer to 19 probably. You know how in the song "Learn To Do It," Vlad and Dimitri taught Anya everything she needed to know about royalty? Well, he wasn't _born_ knowing all that stuff... ;D And Vlad has a slight idea for his boy, but the cupid suit just won't fit... XD Read on.**

.

.

"All right, my boy. If we're going to do this, we are going to do it right."

Dimitri gaped in awe at the giant stack of books Vlad was in the process of dumping on the table. "So, we're doing it by...memorizing the history of the world?"

"No, no, of course not," Vlad laughed. "How do you expect to teach a girl the royal ways if you don't know them yourself, hm?" He gave his younger counterpart a triumphant look. "_I_ will find supper tonight. _You_ start reading."

Vlad had his overcoat on and was heading for the exit. Dimitri was out of his seat in two seconds flat, blocking his path. "Wait a second, now; what about _you_?"

Vlad shrugged. "I know already." And just like that, he was gone.

With a defeated sigh, Dimitri turned back to the mini-library on the table. This was going to be a long night.

.

.

"Who shot Potemkin?"

"Kropotkin."

"Good. Who had a cat?"

"Count Sergei."

"Marvelous. Uh, let's see...ah. Who enjoyed his vodka a little too much, if you, uh, if you catch my meaning."

Dimitri looked up from his pathetic excuse for a sandwich and shifted his eyes to the clock. It was nearly midnight---they'd been at this for going on six hours. "Hey, Vlad---can I ask you something?"

Offering a nod, he replied, "I'm listening."

"Why is it so important for me to know all this? Won't you be there?"

"Well, yes, of course I will, it's only that...that...." Vlad found himself suddenly tripping over his words for just the right way to put it.

"Yes...?"

"Well, I just _assumed_ that it would be more pleasant for our...our _protègè_ to discuss these things with _you_, that's all."

"Oh, brother." With a sigh, Dimitri ran a hand through his hair. "Vlad, do _not_ get any ideas, all right? I am _fine_. And I'll be a lot finer once we've got ten million rubles in our pockets. This is _business_."

"No, no, of course, you're right, you're right." Vlad shut the photo album and spent a moment searching for his glasses before realizing they were on his head. "You mustn't get involved with this girl."

"_Involved?_ Who said anything about _involved?_"

"No one, no one. A simple mistake, that's all. Now. The vodka?"

It took Dimitri a second to realize he'd changed the subject and gone back to the question. "Uncle Vanya," he exhaled, resigned.

"Wonderful." Standing up with a stretch and a yawn, Vlad blew out one of the candles on the table. "Finish the album if you like. It wouldn't hurt you to get some sleep, either."

The shadow retreated toward the room, and in the light of the last half-burned candle, Dimitri stared at the photos pasted in the book. Sure, he reasoned, Vlad was crazy, but he was right---well, _half_ right, anyway. It would help to know the material. Reluctantly, he turned the page, and spent one more hour committing the scrapbook to memory.

.

.

**I do LOVE reviews....**

.


	12. Auditions

.

**He's 19 in this one, _recently_ 19, and it's their very first time holding auditions for an Anastasia look-alike. Everybody's gotta start _somewhere_....**

.

.

Something about today made it seem better than all the other days. He was much more optimistic today. He was looking forward to this. He whistled through the empty halls as if he were a normal citizen with a home and a job and a family.

Today they'd rented out the Pavlov Theatre. Today was the first screening for their blue-eyed ticket to freedom.

Stopping in front of one of the old floor-length mirrors, Dimitri wiped the thick coat of fluffy grey dust from the surface and adjusted the secondhand newsboy cap on his head. This could work.

Vlad had gone ahead to greet the early arrivals, so without another minute of waiting, Dimitri grabbed his coat and disappeared out the door.

.

.

"Dimitri! Good." Vlad gestured to the chair beside him. "I don't think I've ever seen such an impatient crowd."

He hung his coat and hat on the back of the chair and took a seat. "Who do we have first?"

Scanning the list; "Natasha Voskova."

They were ready. Everything was going according to plan. It was time to get started. Clearing his throat, Dimitri called out across the room they'd payed a week's meals for. "Okay---uh, good morning, ladies. I'm Dimitri, and this is Vladimir. When we call your name, come to the stage and tell us why you think you'd make a good Anastasia. Clear?" The line of women nodded. "Okay. First, Natasha Voskova. Natasha?"

Dimitri and Vlad exchanged an excited glance while the girl emerged from the line. But then she was onstage. And they looked at her. And the smiles faded.

Natasha was wearing a bright pink dress with more bows than the human mind could imagine. There was at least an inch of blonde roots in her red hair, and she had a grin on her face that said she was totally confident this was working. It didn't help, either, that her height rivaled a giraffe's---almost without exaggeration.

"Uh...wow."

"Do you see what I see?"

Dimitri gulped. "Unfortunately." Addressing the girl, he added, "Thank you. Next!"

The second woman in the line stepped forward as the first one ran off, and it was clear that this wouldn't work either. She was at least forty-five years old.

Vlad scribbled the first two names off the list. "Thank you. Next please!"

The next girl to take the stage looked _completely_ out of place, or possibly just plain out of it. She had short, curled brown hair, a dance costume, and a puzzled look on her overpainted face. "This isn't the _Swan Lake_ audition?"

Avoiding the urge to slam their heads against the desk until blackness won and consciousness lost, both of them droned "No" in unison.

Confused, she scurried away. Just as it was beginning to look as though they'd never find a match, a demure young redhead took her place, and a ray of hope flickered into the theater.

Once he regained speaking ability, Vlad consulted the list. "You must be...Katrina?"

She nodded. "Yes, that's me."

They traded that look, the Eyebrow Raise of Possibility. "And why should you be Anastasia?" Dimitri ventured.

"Well, my aunt says I look like her. And I can sing just like her."

Again, the ERP. "Sing?"

Katrina nodded again. "The grandmother's lullaby. You could say I did my homework."

This was a beyond incredible find. They'd be in the papers by Monday. "Well," Vlad laughed, "go ahead!"

As soon as she opened her mouth, though, the ray of hope flickered right back out. It wasn't a lullaby. It wasn't a song. It wasn't _singing._ It may or may not have even been _human_. Poor girl---obviously tone deaf. Dimitri could've given up. Vlad could've cried.

Wincing in sheer pain, Dimitri lifted a hand. "Stop that! Uh, I mean, we've---" nervous laugh "---we've heard enough. We'll contact you."

Purely satisfied, Katrina made her exit. Vlad prayed a silent 'thank you.'

Six Anastasias, one man and one set of German triplets later, the verdict was in: This could take a lot, lot longer than they'd ever thought possible.

.

.

**XP XD There may or may not be another chapter of auditions eventually, I haven't thought that far ahead yet. Quite fun. Leave a review please.**

.


	13. Dodging Arrows

.

**This chapter takes place during the film, after the near-kiss on the boat but before the "he can sleep through anything" scene. I wanted a scene where Dimitri and Vlad have an all-out, no-holds-barred, shouting-match argument about the difference between loyalty to the plan and losing out on your only chance. Dimitri thinks he has to ignore the very thought, but Vlad knows that finding another imposter would be easier than finding another girl like her. Like the rest of this story, this is NOT about Anya! She is just a topic; a secondary character. This is about Dimitri. You'll find out.**

.

.

"But Dimitri..."

"No."

"You have to _tell_ her."

Vlad wasn't about to be fooled. He'd known what he'd seen on deck back there. It drove a wedge between the scheme and Dimitri's best interest, and Vlad had never failed to choose the latter.

"No, I _don't_," Dimitri said with a warning in his eyes and in his tone. He backtracked when he realized that wasn't what he meant to say. "There's nothing to tell," he corrected.

"You _have_ to at _least _say _something_."

"I mean it, Vlad," Dimitri hissed, pulling a suitcase from the top bunk. "She'll _hear_ you." Their protegé would be back any second from the washroom down the hall.

"That makes one of us!" Vlad was getting irritated now, his voice raising to an angry boom. "Just who do you think you're benefitting? I know what I saw, my boy, and that does not happen every day. Especially to you."

"Look---even if there _was_ anything to say, what good would it do?" Dimitri roared, throwing the suitcase to the floor.

"You're twenty years old, Dimitri! For ten years I have watched you give up one good thing after another. This is too important for you to just throw away!" Vlad sounded angrier than he'd ever been.

Dimitri wasn't far from rage himself. "Stop telling me how old I am! Do you think I wasn't _there?_ This is _my_ business, and _you_," he shouted, "are _not_ my _father!_"

Vlad was quiet, and his eyes narrowed to bitter slits. "No," he said in a near whisper, "but _one_ of us has to know your best interest, and it _certainly_ isn't you. I'll be the first to tell you that your stubbornness doesn't make you right, it makes you a coward. And I _never_ gave you credit for being a coward." Vlad paused to let his cutting words sink in. "You disappoint me, Dimitri. You really have."

The cabin went silent, except for the dulcet sound of water meeting wood, as the two of them went back to preparing for sleep.

A tense, empty moment passed. "She's better off this way," Dimitri said, almost without being heard.

_Without me_, he meant, Vlad knew. "That, my boy," he said gently, "is where you'll always be wrong."

Another beat of silence. "Vlad..." He didn't have to apologize. The apology was on his face.

"It's all right, Dimitri. I know."

The door opened just then, and Anya stepped in in her pajamas. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"No. No." Dimitri was quick to answer. "You're interrupting nothing." He turned to Vlad, and quietly, casually insisted, "We're sticking with the plan."

"We're sticking with the plan," Vlad echoed, signaling respect for his decision even though he didn't agree with it. Still, there was a note of "for now" in his voice.

Anya directed her wide blue eyes toward them from the steamer trunk she'd been opening. "What plan?"

Dimitri turned to her with his best "trust me" grin. "The plan to get to Paris, your grace."

"Oh." And she went back to putting away her clothes.


	14. Making It Count

.

**This chapter will be the last chapter, all though that doesn't mean I'm done updating---I'll add new ones in between others. (It is SO not over, trust me.) Again, this isn't neccesarily about "them," but about him finally being completely happy. It takes place after the events in the story "Trusting You," going home after he broke his leg on the ship. Funny, fluffy, and short. Just read it. Reviews ALWAYS welcome.**

.

.

"You got it?"

"Yeah. I got it."

Anya stepped out of the driver's seat and went around to the passenger side anyway. Dimitri playfully swatted one of his crutches at her. "Look, your highness, when I need a valet I'll let you know."

"I just want to make sure you're covered," she laughed.

"The obsessiveness is appreciated, but I think I can handle _walking_."

He made it successfully out of the car and onto solid ground, and began heading up the short sidewalk to the townhouse. He stopped when he reached the door.

Anya was concerned---she was concerned at the drop of a hat the past couple days. "What?" she asked.

Dimitri turned himself around to face her, completely blocking access to the house. "You know, I think I forgot how to open a door."

"Dimitri." A "don't joke" look crossed her face.

"No, seriously!"

"Just get inside."

"And I'm seeing colors again. That tree over there looks purple. Or is it blue?"

"Fine then, if _you're_ not gonna get inside, then let_ me _through."

"I think I'm gonna take a nap," he said, and pretended to fall asleep, falling onto her. She shoved him back to a standing position.

"You should be in a mental hospital," Anya laughed.

"Maybe." Dimitri leaned forward on pupose this time, and smiled. "But you know what? I don't think there's any place I'd rather be than here."

He pushed her hair back and kissed her, and, for the thousandth time, thanked his lucky stars that he hadn't given up.


End file.
